


Deus Vult

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Murder, Patricide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life can only be lived in the shadow of death.<br/><br/></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <em>“Your Grace.” Elia’s hand touched his arm. “’Tis but a teething fever; the child shall be fine,” she vowed. </em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <em>Rhaenys dashed past them, chasing the coal-black cat, knocking into one of the acolytes who promptly dropped the tray he’d been holding. Unscathed though the Princess escaped, the small bowls smashed to the ground, producing a horribly jarring sound that echoed through the nursery.</em>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Deus Vult

 

 

 

 

 

_It was a lock of hair, curling around his finger, silky and strong, Rhaegar realised as he looked down at his hand. The darkness of it a gaping wound upon the white skin, coiling and flowing, not unlike a rivulet, a thin ribbon, string of remembrance, passion and sorrow. For him those were intrinsically tied together, never to be pried apart. If the stem were to fall, the delicate petals would follow._

_His fist closed around the lone strand, causing the cord to tense and grow taut._

_In the warm light of dusk it was set aflame, allowed to shine a dull orange-red, cutting into his skin._

_“Your Grace.” Elia’s hand touched his arm. “’Tis but a teething fever; the child shall be fine,” she vowed._

_Rhaenys dashed past them, chasing the coal-black cat, knocking into one of the acolytes who promptly dropped the tray he’d been holding. Unscathed though the Princess escaped, the small bowls smashed to the ground, producing a horribly jarring sound that echoed through the nursery._

_The babe in the cradle howled in displeasure at the poor treatment of his ailment prompting both the septa and his nursemaid into action._

_Rhaegar, in the meantime, had steadied the fairly lively daughter, holding her still. The girl looked at him with wide eyes, her unease palpable. “Apologies, Your Grace,” she offered, small hands grabbing onto the sleeve of his robe._

_Elia took Rhaenys by the hand and guided her gently away. “Do play in the gardens, my love.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"What did she look like?" the boy asked, sitting at his father's feet by the fire. His small mouth arranged itself in a pout. "No one will tell me what she looked like." His complaint seemed to go unnoticed. "I want to know what she looked like."_

_Rhaenys shushed him with customary gentleness. “Do not disturb father,” she added after a moment of consideration. But the child would not be shushed. He continued to fret and complain until even the sweet-witted Princess whose predisposition inclined her towards nurture could not seem to stand it, least of her brother who had risen to his feet in a threatening gesture._

_The cry seemed to finally catch the father's attention. Weary eyes glanced at the child. "Hush now, Lynnor." The words had been spoken in the same manner all adults treat the younglings unable to comprehend the world about them, a mixture of condescension and affection not far removed from the tradition of the lord speaking to the loyal subject. “Aegon, sit back down.”_

_The eldest son sullenly fall back into place. “You are always protecting him,” the child murmured._

_The King never replied, the wherewithal for a confrontation away from his hands._

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The painting had been done by a Meereense master painter, a man whom Rhaegar remembered well enough. But he had, in fact, cared very little for the weasel-like young man beyond his talent with paints. Of course, by the time the painting was commissioned, the model had been given to the flames and the ashes hung around the King's neck, encased in gold. Neither time, nor flame had washed away the sight of Lyanna Stark._

_Gold had never agreed with her, Rhaegar mussed, the memory of a confession upon his mind, carrying the torch in one hand, and with the other holding Lynnor's own. Never had she found in herself a taste for it. Laughter bubbled on his lips at the sight of her, dangling down his neck, encased in gold of all things. Even the portrait had been outlined by a carved wood-frame with gold details._

_Lynnor stumbled over one of the steps, reminding the King that for the moment he was a father as well. He pulled the child up before his knees could hit any sharp edges. “Have a care.”_

_The child nodded his head, quiet in his satisfaction. He was simply pleased to see his mother._

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The young man had done an adequate job of it; the King recalled the woman in the painting fondly, her image flittering about in his mind, the sweet, long-gone laughter filling every nook and cranny of those dark spaces he seldom had the courage to set foot in. Oh, but she hadn't been laughing last he'd seen her. The laughter died away, not slowly, naturally; it cut off in the vicious manner a blade slices through skin and bone._

_Ache bloomed in Rhaegar's chest as the door opened and he walked into the room, Lynnor trailing after him, as fast as his small legs would carry him. "Is that what she looked like?" his son questioned, pointing a tiny finger ahead._

_On the wall, framed, pristine and vibrant hung the picture of a creature straight out of the legends. Not having the model, the artist had had to make do with words. And words had built from the ground up the likeness of the wolf-girl, summoning from the very ashes dangling from the king’s throat the mother. The painting, in truth, was one made up of figments of imagination mashed together, the ideal lost behind the thick coats of grey and blue bathed in warm vermilion and orange._

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"This is what she looked like," the King confirmed to the excited child walking towards the painting._

_Rhaegar glanced away from it a moment, sorrow welling up at alarming speed though the tangible presence so close to him had never left. It seemed that perched as she was on the wall, Lyanna hadn't enough light and her pretty eyes were too dark, her face looked gaunt, strange shadows passing over the pale expanse of skin while torchlight played from time to time upon the canvas._

_He put the torch in its place on the wall and stepped closer to the painting. It was large, spanning more than his arms thrust wide apart. It remained, might be, the best work Rhaegar had ever seen despite its many lacking._

_But, of course, it failed in the one aspect in which he would have wished it to excel. Thus he had locked it away and consequently Lyanna too was put away, given a chamber all of her own where she could rest in peace when she was not hanging onto him._

_Lynnor begged his father to be picked up. “She is too far away,” the child complained._

_Indulging the boy, Rhaegar allowed him a closer look._

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blood gushed out of the fresh wound and a pair of dark violet eyes the like of bruised skin, mottled, unclear, widened in silent astonishment; horror and triumph rose together in that moment, entwined as lovers.

Nary a sound of protest moved past the King's lips at the injustice as the blade continued to twist within, ripping viciously, cutting through the flesh.

There came no angry, desperate cry of the boy, standing before him, with his of silver-gold and lilac eyes. Tears ran down his smooth cheeks, staining his face, etching the sorrow deep into the skin as well as the guilt. The sword clinked as it met the back of the monstrous iron chair. "Why is always about the ones who were never yours?" Aegon questioned calmly.

Lyanna and Lynnor, mere shades, watched from a dark corner, mother holding the frightened child. She gazed emptily at the young man but hid from her son the sight his dying father, keeping the boy facing the deep blue of her flowing kirtle.

She held one hand forth and Rhaegar reached out, fingers meeting the hilt of the blade.

Darkness crept into his vision, engulfing all but the face of his son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The golden chain snapped with an unpleasant sound, the weight of it nearly digging into Rhaegar’s skin, it cut cold and painful. She was angry, he could tell. His fingers gripped the round object, brushing a tip to the soft surface. Whatever had upset her, Rhaegar would put it to rights._

_The guard at the door looked pale, eyes upon his master. Rhaegar gave the man a disinterested look. "Where is my son?" he questioned._

_The desolate courtyard held no explanation, nor sight of Lynnor. The boy should have seen the banner flying long past. He should have been running down the stone steps._

_From the corner of his eye the king caught a small, dark form emerged from within, carrying a bundle of cloth. "Your Majesty, a tragedy!" a thin voice shrieked, clutching the linens to an ample chest. "He is nowhere to be found. The child has disappeared."_

_The woman stopped before him, heaving. She held forth the crumpled linens by way of proof. “I have searched high and low, Your Grace,” she wept. “The boy has vanished.”_

_Rhaegar glanced at his Queen, noting her worried gaze resting upon the cloth. His eyes moved back upon the trembling, wretched creature before them._

_“What is the meaning of this?” the question came from his lady wife. “You dare bring such stories before His Grace and I? Have the child found at once.”_

_Her demand was met with a wide-eyed gaze from the septa._

_The King dismounted, nodding towards the White Bull and Arthur Dayne._

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _The small charred corpse lied on the ground, exposed to the greedy gazes of all those gathered around it. Rhaegar jumped off his horse without any care for the beast or his own health. He rushed to the child, angrily pushing away all those who would deter him._ _But there was nothing to be done for the small creature now but a blackened mound awaiting kinder hands. Anguish and rage battled within him the more he stared upon the remnants of his child. Revulsion churned with fierce ferocity, stomach turning unpleasantly._

_The longer his eyes remained upon the corpse the more sapped, exhausted and defeated he became, picking the child in his arms. It was too late, much too late for his son. The pattern was so very painful in its absolute clarity. The very gods had brought down the hammer upon him and no plate of armour would protect him against the strike. Heart stopped short, the King dared not ask of the higher beings the purpose of such a decision._

_Lynnor's ashes were carefully joined to his mother's, the golden sphere at the neck of the bereaved father remaining as sign of the bond unspoken. Mother and son finally be together._

* * *

 

Elia shushed her second born the best she could and hid the common blade in a coffer in her rooms. “Never speak of this, my love,” she instructed softly, her hushed voice offering protection. Upon the end of those words she sent him away. “Have a care that you are not seen.” For a few moments, she remained staring at her poor, mad, dead husband, a flicker of emotion playing onto her features. He clutched that blasted necklace in his hand, holding it tightly.

She knelt and pulled the object out of his cold, hard grasp. Light fell upon it and in that moment a speck of blood, she had missed it entirely when picking up the pendant, spread on the surface from beneath her thumb.

Startled, Elia dropped her it, watching the sphere roll away. It reached her husband’s thumb, stopping entirely. Not one inch did it shift.

Kneeling beside the corpse, the Queen pushed the gold ornament back in Rhaegar’s grasp.

From without, a gale entered the vast chamber. Elia looked upon the lancet with a shake of the head. The King and his ghosts, she mused, would be reunited. At the very least in that he would be pleased.

No longer was her presence needed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Lynnor cried as the image of his mother, the gentle, sweet, wild woman he had never had the chance to know, was cast into the voracious flame. He had not begun weeping until the first dagger slashed at the woman's serene face, splitting her skull apart. No blood came from the wound, but the smile had been broken and one eye had fallen to rest upon the cold ground._

_Lynnor wept at the paint cracking, paper splitting, the sole link he had to his lady mother turning to dust as his vision blurred with all the weight of his tears upon it._

_And then it was his turn. Only he, unlike the portrait bled. "Shut the little bastard up," a voice hissed. A hand roughly grabbed the child by his dark curls. Smooth, cold steel kissed the thin flesh of his neck, slicing through it with the ease of the butcher slaying a lamb._

_A sharp pain slashed upon his skin. Something warm slid down his flesh and darkness took over, metallic taste filling his mouth._

_Fingers brushed against his cheek; a faint voice rang in his ear. It called him forth, a promise of joy offered to secure his compliance._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
